


Curses We Cast on Ourselves

by Bazylia_de_Grean



Series: Light, Smoke and Mirrors [9]
Category: Dark Tower - Stephen King
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 10:44:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12604812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bazylia_de_Grean/pseuds/Bazylia_de_Grean
Summary: There is very little he finds interesting in this girl now. But he knows Steven Deschain well, and he watched her now and then, and he knows this marriage will break. It will break, and both will try to hold it together, and both would get hurt by the sharp edges, doing most of the work for him. Honorable people are always so convenient.And then, years from now – a couple of years of almost-happiness and a few years of solitude and sorrow and isolation – Gabrielle will become beautiful, with her heart bleeding from getting cut on the shards of her marriage too often.





	Curses We Cast on Ourselves

After Vannay leaves, assured that his lord has reached the destination safe, despite the disturbances on the road, Marten is still looking into the water in the bowl. Watches Steven Deschain walking along a hall in Arten; and then the vision shifts, straight like the like of _ka_ , and there is a pretty dark-haired girl in a garden, among roses; and before the lord of Gilead even casts his eyes on her for the first time, Marten knows. She will be Steven’s wife, she is the future lady Deschain. The next step of the plan revealed to him in the mirror surface of the water. How adequate that she is tending to roses, of all flowers. No others have as many thorns.

Far away, in Arten, Steven stops and turns and notices the girl, and falls like a stone thrown into a lake, falls in love right there and then. The fate is sealed. He has doomed himself and his future bride and any children they would have.

Marten smiles slowly. He could seduce her – Gabrielle, the name appears in his mind, floating like an air bubble up from the depths of his memory – he could seduce her right after the marriage. Even before it. He could do that without difficulty, given her obvious inexperience and his magic – and she is pretty, which always makes things easier – but he will not. There is plenty of time yet, and while sometimes he likes something quick and effective and destructive, there is nothing like the pride after executing an intricately-crafted plan to the letter. Besides, corrupting innocent virgins is only amusing the first few times. And they grow boring very quickly.

There is time to do what Steven Deschain is too foolish, too impatient to think of: give that particular rose the time to grow.

* * *

 

He is present at their wedding; he has to be, as the court magician. Laughs inwardly each time he notices that besotted look on Steven’s face whenever the lord of Gilead glances at his bride. An honorable, naive fool, his _dinh_ ; those like him are always fun.

Marten watches Gabrielle; in a flowing white gown, with a veil over her dark hair and a crown of roses over her forehead, and a blush on her cheeks, she looks too innocent, so sweet he can almost feel his teeth hurt. There is very little he finds interesting in this girl now. But he knows Steven Deschain well, and he watched her now and then, and he knows this marriage will break. It will break, and both will try to hold it together, and both would get hurt by the sharp edges, doing most of the work for him. Honorable people are always so convenient.

And then, years from now – a couple of years of almost-happiness and a few years of solitude and sorrow and isolation – Gabrielle will become beautiful, with her heart bleeding from getting cut on the shards of her marriage too often. Her mind is a sunny garden now, but at the end of the day, at dusk, long shadows will fall over it, turning innocence into disappointment and bitterness, and she will become interesting.

Marten will keep an eye on her and stay invisible, for now; just an element of the castle, nothing more, nothing worth noticing. He will bide his time. And when Gabrielle Verriss – Deschain – will cast shadows onto herself, with the help of her loving husband, Marten will step out of those shadows and show her the night. She will love the moonlight at first; they all do. She will reach for the stars. Who knows, maybe he will even give her one or two, summon a bit of magic and grant her a few wishes. She will fall all the easier for it.

He forms his lips into a pleasant, kind and very appropriate smile and walks over to the newlyweds, to congratulate them.

“May your wishes always be fulfilled, _dinh-sai_ ,” he says, bowing his head. “Lady _-sai_ ,” he adds, bowing over Gabrielle’s hand, but barely even touching her glove. Nothing but courtesies, for now.

Steven smiles back at him briefly. Gabrielle doesn’t smile, just spares him a glance, curious, but she will forget all about him before the night is over.

“Thank you.” She has a melodious voice, very bright, too sweet, but that will change in time, too. “That’s very thoughtful.”

“As should be,” Steven says. “He’s a magician, after all.”

Marten withdraws, watching the remainder of the wedding from a corner with a glass of wine in his hand. Thoughtful, indeed, he muses, smiling to himself. Maybe there is more to this girl that he thought, even if she is not aware of it. Or maybe she just took his words for something else, like so many do.

There is no more powerful weapon against someone than granting them the power of fulfilling their wishes. People so rarely wonder what the outcome will really be.

* * *

 

The day Gabrielle gives birth to Steven’s son, Marten looks into the boy’s future. In secret; this isn’t a fortune telling other parents might have asked for. Not cards; water. Water and the infant’s tear.

He would laugh – because it sounds just as absurd as in all the stories old women tell across the lands – but water can show many things, and what is a tear but water? A person’s mirror.

The vision is murky; not something that will come to pass, but possibilities, crossroads, turns; what might be. One thing that he can see clearly is the gleam of a gun, a familiar gun made of steel and sandalwood. A dangerous weapon, if used inexpertly; more dangerous if used well – more dangerous for the wielder, but few acknowledge it and even less remember. How easy to push a hand which holds the gun to turn the barrel towards its owner.

That is what Marten is here to do, and do it he shall. Gilead will fall. Roland will die... or turn his gun against all his forefathers believed in, and for a Deschain, that would be a fate worse than death. Steven will die. Gabrielle...

He cocks his head a little to the side; in the reflection in the bowl, he looks like a curious cat. What to do with Gabrielle, he wonders. It’s too early to tell. He can steer her towards a path of his choosing, but whether she will be ready to walk it is another thing altogether. And it is impossible to tell now, not when she is at her happiest with a newborn child in her arms and her husband at her side.

Should need be, he could easily kill her as well. But not before he sees what will become of her. The little rose is beginning to bloom, and soon she will turn into a flower. But he is more interested in whether she will grow enough thorns.

* * *

 

She often passes him by in the library, but rarely notices him. Just greets him briefly or nods at him absent-mindedly, focused on finding new tales she could read to her son. She doesn’t notice him, but he watches.

How over a few years her face turns from happy to disappointed and then sad, because her son is growing up and he wants other tales now, tales of guns and of wars, of heroes and foes. Tales of grown men. She is losing her son; began losing him on the day he was born with a gunslinger for a father, but only now realizes it.

How the light in her eyes is dimming slowly, day by day, spark by spark. Eventually, they will become two wells, and then he will fill them with poison.

Marten watches as Gabrielle picks a book, turns towards the door, but is already skimming through the pages and doesn’t notice she is walking straight towards him. He doesn’t step away. When she is but a step away, he reaches out and steadies her, gently catching her by the elbows.

“Careful, _sai_ Deschain,” he says, making it a polite jest. It is not the time for crossing the lines of propriety, not yet.

She blinks, then blushes a little, feeling awkward and too clumsy for a woman who is the lady of Gilead and should always be graceful.

“Ah, I apologize.”

He smiles at her, genuinely amused. “No harm done.”

Not yet. It is still in the making. Though ‘charm’ might be a better word to describe it. Weaving subtle spells takes a lot of time... But when all the threads come together, they are stronger than a blast of fire, an earthquake, everything. In the end, there is nothing as powerful as a breath, a touch, or a softly spoken word – if one knows the precise moment, and at which point to apply the pressure. That is how the most subtle magic works. Very simple. Maybe that is why so few have figured it out.

* * *

 

He watches her through the glass – just looking out of the window, not scrying. Gabrielle is walking in the gardens yet again, alone but for the company of roses. Her favorite flowers.

Marten notices all those little things, details that escape Steven’s attention. Love conquers much, and it’s a force to be reckoned with, but in common, everyday life, love is not all. Maybe not even the most important. Not enough to sustain anyone on its own, anyway. Everyday life isn’t grand moments; it’s little things. Just as much of magic, it requires observation and attention to detail.

He watches and learns. Small things. That she loves roses, their colors and their scent. That she likes reading. That even though she likes fancy gowns, she doesn’t really pay much attention to them; it wouldn’t matter to her if she had two instead of twenty; she just finds comfort in having some beautiful things around her. That she is not certain of her own looks, that there is always some hesitation in her, as if she could not quite believe how could anyone consider her pretty. How could anyone even consider her a woman, when she has become just a mother of their son to her own husband. Marten knows it is not entirely true; Steven simply does not want to impose on her, isn’t sure if his advances would be welcome, if he can intrude into that little world she has build around Roland. Deschains have always been fools.

Roses, books. Careful compliments. Lights and colors, things she lacks in Gilead the most. Simple tricks that would make her laugh; ah, that will be the easiest part to play, if only he doesn’t get bored.

And words. Straightforward, bold words that no one else would dare to speak to her. Ultimately, that is what will make her believe – the fact that someone would forego propriety because of her. Many women would consider that power, but Gabrielle isn’t like that. It’s not power she wants. It’s love. More precisely: the feeling of being loved, being desired. The pretty illusion. He can easily weave it for her. Make it last. Convince her that he cares. He sometimes does, after all, in a way. There were means to some ends he remembers quite fondly.

And then, when he earns her trust, he will suggest. Advise. Not demand; she would not fall for that. She might not be the brightest, but she isn’t stupid; wiser, in some ways, than her husband. No, he will not force her; he will guide her. And then, when there is no turning back, she will force herself. It will be interesting to watch.

* * *

 

She is sitting beside her husband, quiet, eyes focused on the glass of wine standing on the table in front of her, her slender fingers holding the glass softly. Her other hand is clutching the folds of her gown; Marten can see the tension in her muscles.

He leans over to Steven.

“Would you mind if I danced with your esteemed wife, _dinh-sai_?” he asks, with the usual half-smile. Just the familiar magician, playful, slightly mischievous sometimes, always ready to break the rules so subtly barely anyone notices the cracks. Marten Broadcloak as Steven knows him: not very pleasant company, sometimes a bit unsettling, but overall nothing to worry about.

“If she wishes to,” Steven answers after a moment, obviously startled by the question.

That is nothing compared to the shock that flashes on Gabrielle’s face, quickly replaced by a neutral, kind expression. But he can read the cries of joy in her eyes. She has been waiting to dance again for almost ten years.

She reaches out, hesitantly, as if it dawned on her who he is, as if she was afraid he would put a spell on her. Too late for worries; the magic is planted and ready to sprout and bloom. But the best thing – ah, the best thing is that she will be the one to put that spell on herself. Spell, charm. Curse. So many names; and all accurate, for that particular thing.

“Of all the roses of Gilead, you are the most radiant, lady _-sai_ ,” he murmurs quietly as they are passing each other barely half a step away.

“Thank you.” Her reply is non-committal; she considers his words nothing but a common courtesy.

But at the end of this night, she will think of this dance, of how light she felt, of how she _glowed_. Even her husband, blind to so many things, can see it that she is glowing.

And in the morning, she will wake up from dreams about dancing. About dancing, roses and lights. And his eyes. He will make sure she remembers his eyes.

* * *

 

It was so amusing to show her how little she knew of courting. Not half as amusing as it is to show her how little she knows of lovemaking. And pleasant, he won’t deny it. She is much prettier now than she used to be; cracks left by sorrow now half-filled with hopes; brittle and on the verge of breaking; beautiful.

He would have not called her beautiful a few years ago. But sadness and despair have made her face more interesting, like an intricate stained-glass image instead of a simple painting. Loneliness has made her brittle like glass and yet pliant like wax, and much can be done with such a combination.

The sun is setting and there are deep shadows across her now, and she is interesting enough to hold his attention for a while. There are toys, there are playthings, and sometimes there are treasures he loves to collect. It’s like plucking flowers, and then keeping them cut off from their roots, sustained by magic.

With Gabrielle, he needs no other magic than the subtleties he has been setting in motion for years. Now all the threads come into one, and the spell she is holding in her hands is even more powerful than he anticipated. Good. Excellent.

She is still sweet, but there is enough bitterness in her now that the sweetness isn’t cloying. Not a perfect balance, not necessarily his favorite flavor, but her thoughts are delicious. He can taste the first hints of love in her kisses, and knows it will turn into a potent poison. The best kind; so good and sweet it kills.

Though maybe she will not be among those that will die of it. Maybe he will keep her for a little longer.

She doesn’t whisper words of love to him. She is embarrassed and apparently unsure what to do now that they are lying naked and entwined in her bed; is she supposed to talk or fall asleep or ask him to leave? He glances at her and finds out that she is not sure because she doesn’t know what she wants.

Gabrielle shifts, leans on an elbow to look at him. Her eyes are serious. When she reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder, her touch is hesitant. But her words, when she speaks, are calm and decisive.

“Not just kisses,” she whispers, and leans in.

Marten meets her kiss with an open mouth, letting her taste honey and smoke and roses. Magic can be so useful sometimes, in such small things that make all the difference.

She isn’t trying to prove to him that she knows something, after all, she is simply starved of closeness, of intimacy – not just the physical kind. But that is no reason not to show her how little she knows. He wanted to be her guide, after all.

* * *

 

There’s an absent, thoughtful look on Gabrielle’s face; she’s thinking of her husband again. Amusing, really, how often she’s not able to focus on the man she’s with at the moment. Remembering his caresses, when she’s with her husband; musing over her dissolving marriage when she is with him.

Someone else might have considered it offensive, but Marten merely laughs at it inwardly. Poor little thing, thrown to and fro between the two of them like flotsam, never really belonging anywhere. But that is only a matter of time. Ultimately, she will be his – his tool, if nothing else, though he is thinking of offering her a more prominent role in the incoming tragedy– and that is why he doesn’t care for Steven Deschain’s image, always hovering at the edge of her thoughts. Because one day, not very far from now, her husband will be a smoldering corpse, her son will be dead or an outcast, and Gilead will be a ruin overgrowing with roses. And he will hold its prettiest flower in his hands, and either crush it... or press it between his palms, softly, to feel the texture of its petals.

“You’d go mad if you left me,” he says in a low voice that could be read as seductive.

A few months ago, she would have thought it was. She is in love, she’s still infatuated... But this is the same Gabrielle who, at sixteen, decided to marry for reason and common sense, who tried to cling to that marriage and remain true to her word, and only when she saw how hard that failed did she seek happiness elsewhere. And yet she did. Strong enough not to give in right away, smart enough not to try saving something that is already forfeit. She may not be aware of all she notices, she may not be able to word it, but now and then she gets a glimpse. Smart girl.

She knows him well enough to know his voice might as well be a warning. Not that he has ever threatened her – not yet, warnings work much better for what he has in mind. Enemies threaten. Warnings come from people who are close, who care.

Gabrielle blinks and turns her face towards him. She’s not frightened, he has to give her that. And perhaps he would, if he didn’t know the reason why.

“Would you curse me?” she asks softly.

“No.” He smiles. “Why would I?” He runs his fingers up her spine and watches her arch into his touch. She really is a pretty thing, when not bound by the everyday rules of propriety. “You’d do that to yourself on your own, my love.”

Gabrielle doesn’t answer, just looks into his eyes. He can read her thoughts, but there is no need for that; everything she does not say is plainly written in her gaze. She knows what he is talking about, what he means. There is a thin line between deep, overwhelming loneliness and madness. Yes, she knows that very well.

It was interesting, watching her descending towards that edge as if she was dancing on a long flight of stairs, two steps down and one step up, but inevitably down, down. Watching the fear of emptiness slowly blooming in her eyes. Listening to all the cries she muffled against a pillow. So different from the happy, sweet, smiling bride Steven Deschain brought home years ago.

He moves his hand down her arm, half-stroking, half-tickling – the more playful, mischievous Marten that irritates her so often but still she loves him for all the times he makes her laugh. Then he brushes his fingertips over her hip. There are small marks there, scattered across her abdomen and thighs. He could have easily remedied that, if she ever thought it would make her prettier in her husband’s eyes, but she is too proud. Besides, Steven Deschain probably thinks those are a badge of honor, some kind of order for bearing a child.

And Marten doesn’t care. Human body wears out with the passage of time; that is a natural thing. She is pretty, slender, with a still-youthful face and the eyes of a grown woman who has seen her life slowly coming to an end; a full turn of the wheel, and now another, with him.

Light still shines through her, and inside he can see broken glass and rose thorns. He could cut himself, if he wasn’t cautious. Perhaps he has. Time will tell.

“Are you casting a spell?” Gabrielle asks, staring at him questioningly.

“No, not now. You don’t like when I do magic, do you?” He turns so that he’s on his back, and pulls her up, and in a moment she’s lying over his chest.

“No, I don’t.” She crosses her delicate, narrow hands and rests her chin atop them, looking down at him. Her eyebrows rise and a corner of her lips curves up, just a little. “Unless you call this magic, too.”

Marten lets his head fall back onto the pillow and laughs out loud. There are traces of the girl she used to be within her, of the woman she could have become if her marriage went well. Not much left of those, but sometimes that afterimage shines through; and sometimes she makes him laugh with a comment like this one, except they probably find it amusing for entirely different reasons.

Usually, he prefers shadows, but too much drama is exhausting. He will have enough shadows later, when the infatuation is over, and Gabrielle will start thinking of her family more often, will start doubting her decision. By then, it will be too late. And right now, she is too relieved to be free of loneliness and prolonging solitude, she is still _elated_ to have someone who pays so much attention to her. And later – later she will be afraid to lose it all: the comfort of someone’s – his – presence at her side, the comfort of a warm body next to hers in bed, if nothing else, kisses and touches that speak of desire, not only of care and tenderness.

“Well, you know what I think of false modesty,” he replies with a brief grin.

Gabrielle looks away, cheeks flushed. Here, married for years and now also having a lover, yet still a blushing virgin at heart. It is outright funny that he, of all people, is the one who makes her feel like that.

She tries to move away, but he holds her. That’s not the face of her he wants to see, no. Eyes dark with yearning – amusing how she’s not able to call it lust – but then it’s not, not for her. It is the best joke of all, that she has fallen for with him – it’s not just a physical thing, not just having good time together; she is beginning to really, honestly love him. Good; more than that – excellent. No strings are more durable and easier to pull than the ties of love.

“Don’t go. What kind of host it would make you, if you left me alone in your bed?” He asks, teasing.

Gabrielle’s lips tighten into a line, and she pointedly turns her head away. Wanting him to ask for her favor, to apologize in order to get back into her good graces. He could; he’s done far worse things for fall less enticing prizes. But he doesn’t have to. Not with words, anyway. Gestures are easier. She can interpret them to her liking, and he can watch her lie to herself. Her mind is always so pretty when she does that.

Marten kisses her neck and she stops squirming, lets him roll them over, lets him press their hips together, lets a sigh escape her as he dips his tongue into the hollow of her throat. When he lifts his head to look at her, Gabrielle’s eyes are dark with desire. Not for him, not exactly; for the fact that someone wants her, that someone sees her. A very potent drug, he knows. He has seen it often. Useful things, feelings. So very useful.

“I’ve heard something about magic once,” she whispers, eyes wide in the gloom; bare before him, body and mind and soul; her husband has never knows her as intimately, all the corners of that little complex labyrinth of roses and thorns. “That it always works both ways.”

He ponders that for a while when they are falling asleep, smiling lazily at the pleasant heat of her body at his side. Old tales and sayings often claim that magic does always work both ways, and it is so. But not how people think; one has to give in order to get, true, but not always the same amount; there is no equal force working against the caster whenever a spell is weaved. He knows; who would know better than a magician?

And even if it were that way, he would know best how to deal with it. He is, after all, very familiar with curses.


End file.
